A Night Out At The Ballet

Well, hello everyone. I kind of took a little break from this space, didn't I? Turns out I'm in a bit of a funk, and I have learned that when I'm feeling this way it's best not to sit down and force myself to write something. This has always led to a post I cringe at when re-reading it a year later. So I kept my bahumbug spirits away from this blog until something came up that would be worthy of blogging. And what luck! This weekend turned out to be just that.

You see, in September my MIL gave me and my brother-in-law's girlfriend tickets to see the Nutcracker as well as a dinner out as our birthday gifts. She even drove up from Gardnerville and babysat the little munchkin for us.

We got all gussied up and hit the town. As I kissed Gwyneth goodbye she squirmed out of my grasp only to run over to see what her Grammy was up to. We were chump change since the arrival of her Grammy and it was bittersweet. On the one hand, I'm glad she's not so much of a mama's girl anymore as nothing brings on that mom guilt worse than an infant screaming as you leave. On the otherhand, would it be too much to ask for a little emotion in regards to her mother leaving her? I digress.

After dinner with a poor waitress who was in the wrong profession and was comically terrible, we headed over to the play. Our seats were in the section AA, as in in the front, center row, in front of the front row.

 Guys, this picture was taken with the camera sitting on the stage. No joke. It was like we were in the ballet and could see every last detail of every single pair of insanely thin tightsof each man dancing on stage.  It was pretty cool.

But wait! The fun didn't stop there! The next morning we woke up all the college kids and went out to breakfast, at Peg's Glorified Ham & Eggs in Sparks. It was delicious.

 And seeing as this is now the third time I've had to re-write this post, I think it's best if I just hit publish and let you know that perhaps my funk has passed. Or at least there won't be further declarations that I think Gwen only really needs a pack of twistable colored pencils in her stocking and Christmas decorations aren't necessary this year. I know, right?! What's that about? But as true testament, the house is decorated and Gwen's stocking stuffers have been purchased. And there's more than just a pack of pencils.

I See a Therapist And I'm Not Crazy

Last week marked the last day I’d be seeing my therapist. You see, I am not the least bit ashamed that I have been seeing a therapist weekly for about three years now. I think a huge part of not being ashamed has to do with the amazing relationship that has formed between the two of us.

Once upon a time when I was in the depths of sorrow, not sure I’d find my way out of the hole that was the worst of undiagnosed depressive episodes. I sought out counseling. I sat across an older woman who stared blankly at me and made me feel quite uncomfortable. She was number two in a long string of therapists I had found from my insurance’s provider listing.

So I stopped going, fell even deeper into depression to the point that my husband accompanied me to my general practitioner where I sat and filled out a survey and gladly took the medicine he prescribed. This led to the cycle of antidepressants that lead me to a psychiatrist who was heavy on the prescriptions and light on the therapy.

Eventually, we conceded that while antidepressants helped me get out of bed in the morning they did barely anything to cure the root of the problem, depression. Wanting to have a baby in the near future, it was decided that my goal was to treat this thing without the aid of meds.

I called my current therapist. Out of all the therapists I have ever called, her voicemail message was the kindest (she said she really appreciated my call and meant it). Her scheduling was different and forced me to come in to a set appointment. This abandoned the common problem I had of being depressed, terrified of my telephone and not calling to make an appointment.

To be honest, I don’t even remember those first few appointments. What I do remember is year after year, episode after episode she was there for me. The most memorable of these was two weeks after Gwyneth was born. My parents had left and it was just us three. We gave the baby a bath to which she screamed bloody murder while being dried off. As I dried her off with a towel a momentary blip of, “hey, if I put this towel over her face she won’t cry anymore…” flew into my mind. As quickly as it had come the shame and guilt followed.

We were on high alert for any signs of postpartum depression. Like crazy high alert, we saw that episode of Scrubs and knew that this was just like when Jordan said she wanted to throw her baby out the window. As I sat on the couch uncontrollably sobbing after having thought these terrible thoughts Jake had called and made an appointment.

So in I went, certain I was falling into some horrible case of postpartum depression and coincidentally was a terrible mother because of it. As I sat on her couch, filled with so much guilt and shame she made me realize that:
1. This wasn’t postpartum depression.
2. I was normal.

Imagine that happening for three years. Coming in all depressed and wracked with anxiety only to have her break the cycle. She renewed my diminished self-confidence, showed me time and time again that I am a capable, loving human being and empowered me to love life again.

This is the first time in three years that I won’t have that reminder on a weekly basis. Am I scared? No, because I know that I can live my life with depression. I can identify it and use the tools I’ve learned to not let it get crazy out of control.

And that my friends, is why I’m not ashamed to say I see a therapist. That therapist changed my life and made it better. Without her I would most likely have killed myself by now or be living in a constant zombie-like state of self-pity (which you can read about here, here or here).

Everyone in my life must get sick of me saying they need to see a therapist because it’s my go-to advice for most of life’s problems. But seriously, ignore the stigma that comes with seeing one because it shouldn’t exist. If you’ve been thinking you should call one, do it, because you never know, you might find your life-saving friend like I did.

*********************

 

 

 

 

The Day I Did It All

Yesterday was one of those days where I laid down in bed and knew that I was back to myself.  You know how I was all, I've got depression and it lasted a weekend because I'm awesome and kicked it's butt?  Yea, it didn't really go entirely that way. It lingered and took hold of me in the most devilish of ways. While it wasn't at its worse, it was lingering in the background, making me lazy and unmotivated. Slowly I've been shaking it off, getting back to my productive, still somewhat lazy self and yesterday was so nuts-O productive I had to document it for the masses. Or at least for myself so that I can look back and realize that it really is depression and I'm not a terrible person for wanting to sit on the couch instead of being super woman.

I woke up early, showered and made  bitsy bread to take to a play date. I went to a play date with an old co-worker. I returned a list of phone calls I had put off which is always a sign of depression. I get so paranoid and nervous when I miss a call. Then when I don't return it I feel guilty and even more nervous to return it because it's been five days. Dumb dumb dumb.

During nap time instead of sitting in front of the computer I finished my mom's mother's day gift. I laid down to take a nap myself, which lasted five minutes. I made Gwen a dress.

When the husband came home from work he wasn't feeling well.  So I mowed and fertilized the lawn after dinner while he kept an eye on the baby. I gave the baby a bath and put her to bed.  I showered AGAIN. Twice in one day!

I mean, it was one heck of a productive day. This wasn't a typical Monday by any means and to be honest I have no idea how I managed to do all of that.

It feels good to be back and pisses me off a little to realize how stupid depression is and how much of my quality of life goes to crap when it hits me.

Time and time again the same cycle happens and it's not always easy to remember  a light at the end of the tunnel. It's much easier to admit defeat and wallow in self pity as the guilt and shame pile up. But I am here to say there is light! Glorious, glorious, beautiful light.

Making Depression My Bitch Instead of the Other Way Around

“Therapy was hard today,” was my response to my husband’s inquiry of how our day went. Tears streamed down my face as I explained my feelings of inadequacy, failure and non-existent self esteem.

A year ago this would have been a common discussion in our household. Recently, or so I thought, depression had become a thing of the past. I haven’t taken anti-depressants for over two years and my weekly therapy sessions have become bi-weekly. Lately I walk in all smiles and talk about surface problems that would be solved by the time I left the office.

This week was different. I talked about what I thought were usual things on the verge of tears with a heavy heart. By the middle of the session I broke down as the self-destructive thoughts I had tucked away in the farthest depths of my mind poured out.

I had become so distracted by tricking myself into not admitting I was depressed to notice that I was. If I kept myself busy enough and had an excuse for my typical depressive behavior then it surely wasn’t depression. It’s PMS, it’s my hormones, it’s because I watched Parenthood. I came up with it all and truly believed if I didn’t tell myself I was depressed then I wasn’t.

Yet, there underneath it all were the sure signs we have come to recognize as depression. The fact that the baby played by herself for most of the day while I watched episodes of Friends should have been a clue. Or the way I turned into mega bitch when my husband spilled water on the floor. Or how my sex drive disappeared as if someone had snapped their fingers.  Or the fact that my home is inexplicably filthy due to my desire to nap rather than clean.

So I took a week off. I gave myself one day to let it take its course. I gave into the desire to be lazy and sleep away my problems. I put on Sesame Street for the baby to watch. I let myself cry.

After my day was up I employed all the tactics I have learned to combat the son of a bitch. Go outside, exercise, give thanks, socialize with friends, talk, listen, force myself to do things, play with that sweet little baby dying for my attention.

It didn’t go away 100% in one day, but it didn’t grip my life like it used to. A typical depressive episode used to go on for weeks and would only get worse. Not this time. I can feel it melting into the distance.

Those self-loathing thoughts slip back into the background as my esteem builds itself back to a normal level. The house is cleaned, the  sex drive is back and the bitchy attitude has recessed into the darkness.

I’m told depression is a way of life and I’ll have to deal with it. I used to never believe that and always think it’s gone away for good when a few months go by with no sign of it. But this time was different. It caught me off guard and I reacted with authority instead of succumbing to its wrath.  It’s a nice change and finally shows that perhaps just maybe I will be able to deal with it. 

Gratitude

The key to getting out of a rut, for me, at least, is to show a little gratitude. By simply vocalizing the things you are grateful for makes all the other crap floating around your mind disappear.   So, what am I grateful for these days?

My caring husband who when he asks how I'm doing and I respond a little dizzy, immediately gets me water, lunch and a york peppermint patty and demands me to relax.

Sophie, who is attached to my hip, and Homer, who is so goofy you can't just crack up when looking at him.

The fluttering of little kicks inside my belly.

Our new dishwasher arriving tomorrow